Missed the first part?
Read it in our Winter Issue.
You want him to come to you with that hang-dog look on his face and I have a question to ask you and I want you to tell me the truth. You want his suspicion and his anger and sense of betrayal and his bruised ego and his emasculation and you want to throw it all back in his face. You want to spit at him. Well what did you expect me to do, being married to a fat, useless lump like you? You want him to slam the door and sleep in the spare room. You want him to ignore you for days, admitting only the barest necessary pleasantries into his communication with you. You want to question yourself, to wonder if you should feel dirty for what you've done. You want him to care enough about you to care about the fact that for three months you would meet Kevin, the stupid boy Bob hired as a favor to a college buddy, and you would suck him off in the copy room, three doors down the hallway from Bob's office. You want him to fight.
But he won't.
He just sits there with his knowledge of what you do, and his complacency and his impotence. He would call it patience and consider it a virtue.
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That first time, before the wedding, you were immediately overcome with a sort of grief for what you had done. You felt culpable and guilty and terrified of the consequences. Would what you had done put your relationship with Bob in jeopardy? If so, was that momentary thrill and excitement worth the trade-off? You told Christie about it the following day, and through all of her sorority smirks and Cosmo promiscuity there was something judgmental in her reaction. But she was sworn to silence and no doubt felt some sisterly bond between the two of you, right up to the point at which, over dinner at your place, she casually dropped his name into the conversation, as if he was someone Bob knew. As if he was Bob's golfing buddy and not the man who had fucked the woman Bob had just married.
Bob knew then. He must have done. He's not the most aware of men, but even he must have felt some twist in his stomach, some rush of blood around the temples, maybe no more certain than a suspicion, but still a knife slash to the Thomas Kinkade idyll of his newlywed existence.
Follow the words...
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